Broadwell was -- and is -- one of those burgs. Though Route 66 is no longer marked, much of the storied street survives in Illinois, including the crumbling section that pushes through here.

There isn't much in Broadwell. Only 150 folks live here, among them Ernie and Frances Edwards, proprietors of the Pig Hip Restaurant along old U.S. Route 66.

The first time I met Ernie, I asked about the strange name. The restaurant's, that is.

Ernie, with a huge white chef's hat stuck on his head, looked serious, like a math professor explaining a calculus problem. He then said the pig hip in question refers to a hog's left hip, which purporteldy produces a better cut of pork.

"The hog raises its right leg to scratch, and that makes it tough," he said, total deadpan.

When he got done pulling my chain, he said the restaurant and the synonymous sandwich it serves got their names when a hungry farmer came in, pointed to a pork roast and told Ernie, "Just give me one off that pig hip."

Of such lore were Route 66 legends born. The place is a short-order cafe and more, selling kitschy stuff like salt-and-pepper shakers shaped like Oriental women, religious statues, tea kettles and other trickets that are a joy to behold.

Edwards opened the joint a few years after the highway was poured in 1926, and it survived long after the roadway fell out of favor.

Until recently, that is.

The other day I slipped off I-55 and stopped by the Edwards' house. It's not hard to find: It's the only one around -- perhaps in the world -- with a giant, red, rooftop sign screaming "RESTAURANT. " The Pig Hip is next door.

Ernie, 75, didn't remember me right away. I explained that I hadn't stopped by in awhile, which is probably why he didn't recognize me.

He's still full of baloney: "You just got better looking."

You gotta love this guy.

I told Ernie that I'd noticed the Pig Hip signs had disappeared from I-55. He nodded, and calmly said the Pig Hip had been closed.

Shuttered? Shudder!

To make things worse, I'd had a hand in its undoing. It seems the media multitudes who've waxed whimsically about Route 66 and the Pig Hip made the joint too popular.

"Since we had so much publicity on 66, we had tremendous business," said Frances, 70. "Fourteen- hour days get to be a bit too long for folks our age."

Ernie hasn't found dependable help to keep the place open, and his kin aren't interested.

"They're all retired and living royal, and we're still pickin' with the chickens," he said, grinning.

He'd like to sell the place to someone who'd keep it going. But he's had no takers, and he might auction off what's left of the Pig Hip.

Even sadder, as far as Route 66 survivors go, the Edwardses are not alone.

Slowly but surely, as Route 66 turns 66 years old, the folks who breathed life into the gray slab are fading away. And, as interstates continue to choke the life out of the old highway, you
wonder how long it can hold on to its color and charm.

I shut such thoughts out of my mind as I shook Ernie's hand and bolted out of Broadwell. It's corny, but instead of leaping onto I-55, I slipped out of town along the remains of Route 66, my ears ringing with Ernie's words: "This is the Main Street of the world here. "